Tell yourself
as the moon turns scarlet and the morning tides pull you closer
that you will keep walking these sands, same as you always have—
that your feet are not weary, that the lines on your hands are not there,
the strand of silver in your brush is a fluke.
Tonight, in the suffocating air of a dying spring,
you are sucking down moonshine on Grandma’s back porch
and smoking corn-silk cigarettes on her tire swing.
You are rambling toward your third-floor walk-up
and happy to be lost in this city at 3 a.m.
You are with your new lover in a bathroom stall
and watching the sun rise from her favorite mountain.
You tell yourself, yes, all of it did just happen yesterday—
and you believe the lie. Tomorrow
you can think back to colder nights when you saw the cruelty of stars
and curl yourself under their blanket. Stretch yourself out
on that sleeve of rocks where you once splashed. Tell yourself
you have loved and been loved,
rest easy.
